Odd Days: Storytelling

I love stories. I loved being read to as a child. After Mom read us our bedtime story, and after the lights were switched off, I would turn on my radio and listen to the Lone Ranger. Nowadays I rely on NPR to tell me stories. On (very) rare occasions, I can talk Durf into reading to me, but I daresay he puts that activity in the same class with climbing Pikes Peak.

All this by way of saying, our primary reason for going to Tennessee recently was to attend the storytelling festival in Jonesborough. Ok, and a little teeny part of me thought that there was a teeny weeny chance that Pat Conroy, master storyteller that he is, might also make an appearance. (He didn't.)

So, what is a storytelling festival, you might ask. Well, think Telluride, but replace the films with people who run up on stage and tell hour-long whoppers. Replace the well-heeled and slight snooty audience at Telluride with hillbillies, cowboys and down home folks like yours truly. Replace the Rocky Mountains with colorful hollers and there you have it.

There is no requirement that the stories be true, and apparently no requirement that they not be stolen. Only that they entertain. And that they did.

I want to go back! Next time, I'll bring some wine to go with my fried fish and tater tots. (No bars in Jonesborough!) And I'm going to take my sister with me. She won't be sitting in the audience, though. I'm going to put her on stage, because nobody tells whoppers like she does!